Two Roads and a Yellow Wood
by redflame1020
Summary: Inspired by Robert Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken".


**A/N: fanfic decided to mess up some of my spacing last time I uploaded, hopefully it's now been fixed. If the story seems jumpy PLEASE message me immediately and I will try and fix it once more.**

At a branch in the road, a young woman sits.

In a sunny wood, filled with tall white birches and golden oaks, she mulls over where she ought to go.

Vines drape in green curtains across mahogany limbs, locks of living hair draping over their silent compatriots, living in harmony with the gentle giants beneath them. Grasses carpet the damp soil, growing in thick blankets across the land. Bird song chortles through the air.

Clear blue eyes stare at the roads laid out before them. Mountain laurels bloom up on either side of the narrow way, and the woman gently fingers the silken petals, trying to make an impossible decision.

Both paths are dirt roads, their surfaces are smooth and even, deviating through the giant cathedral of growth surrounding them. Looking back at the beginning of the path, the way is set, a straight line with only a few, small curves. As time passes, the choices become more numerous, more paths enter the stream of life. The trees, once perfect and chaste, now have a solemn air of grandmothers who have dodged all the attacks of life, and know must watch their descendents battle the same battles. Bushes begin to grow, and the scene moves from quiet perfection to a multi-layered masterpiece, the consummation of beauty undeniably complicated. Within this beauty are choices which must be made to move forward.

Which way should she choose to go? At first glance, the roads are exactly the same, excepting the fact that one curves to the left and the other to the right. The end of neither can be seen.

Which route should be chosen?

To the left, she can see a slow decline, a break in the even ground she has trodden on all her life. The perfect world becomes a little less perfect, but is no less beautiful than the paths the girl has already walked on. In the left route lies Potential, for in the imperfections there is room for growth, room for improvement. At the same time though, the road might turn treacherous, and those small imperfections might not seem so small anymore.

To the right lies a small stretch where something is different. Right before the road curves out of sight, there lies a glow indescribable, effervescent, yet permanent. The girl knows something lies beyond, something no man has ever been able to describe to her, for none have seen it and returned. There lies the beyond, and once that path is taken, there is no turning back.

"Where will you walk, daughter?"

The girl turns to the man sitting next to her, who had not been there before. The resemblance between the two is striking. Blond hair, eyes ashen blue, unnaturally pale. Here in the wood, the tones of their gazes seem less unusual.

"I don't know."

Pause.

"How can you be here?" the girl asks.

"I am not here; I am beyond this branch for many years now. I am only a messenger, sent to calm your mind" They sit in silence for a while, this answer sufficient for now. The girl looks left, then right, then plays with the flowers, linking them together in a long chain, which she places gently over her father's head. Her hands rise, caressing his face.

"Which way should I go?" the girl asks, confused and alone. There is no answer. He cannot help her decide.

From the left path, a voice calls out, but it cannot be understood. The desperation it bears needs no language to be understood. The right remains silent.

"Who was that?" the girl asks, concerned and anxious.

"You know who it is," her father replies.

The scene pauses, nothing moving. The flowers bloom on either side, never changing, always perfect. The young woman suddenly stands, determined to fulfill her choice.

"I shall take the left path," she calmly states, but she speaks to thin air. Her choice made, her father is out of reach. They will eventually meet again, but not today.

She takes her first step.

And her second.

She walks, then jogs as the voice cries out again. "Rebekah!" The voice hollers out as the girl steps out of the wood into the garish light.

"Get them all back, now!" A male voice calls out, barely audible above the roar of an angry crowd. The world is inverted, and Beka tries to right herself, only to be overwhelmed by pain. Suddenly, she is pushed upright, and the world returns to its vertical position.

"Get her out of here!" cries Tunstall, beating back a drunk, angry mob, his baton a tornado of pain.

"Rebekah, come on, we have to move," another man commands, and Beka turns to look into eyes as black as the night. She feels herself leave the ground, and is hustled away, the rumbling gallop striking pain into her side with every loping stride. The motion strikes pain into her torso, and her hands quickly find the hilt still buried in her hip. Beka faintly presses down on the bandaging surrounding it, trying to hold her life inside her body.

"Rosto, I'm fine," Beka insists as she hobbles down the road, trying to shake her concerned lover off her tail.

"Beka, you had a dagger buried in your side which, miraculously, managed to miss all major organs. Even so, the healers said you needed three weeks before you could be cleared for duty." Here, Rosto inserted a dramatic pause, before continuing, "It's been three _days_."

"It's not like I'm going to go out drinking and brawling, I'm just going home."

"In case you've forgotten, your home is now over a tavern."

A wicked grin on her face, "Then others can drink and brawl while I watch."

"_Rebkah._"

Beka stopped, turning on her heel, wincing as her stitches pulled.

"Rosto, when have I ever been able to sit still for that long?" An acknowledging shrug replied.

"You know that, if I didn't nag," he grinned back, "my conscious would bother me to no end"

Beka laughed, "Who ever knew you had a conscious? Besides, you knew what you were getting with me."

"Yes, I have made my choice."

Beka laid a chaste kiss on his lips, whispering, "So have I."

**A/N: This story was inspired by Robert Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken", specifically these lines:**

"**Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,  
And sorry I could not travel both  
And be one traveler, long I stood  
And looked down one as far as I could  
To where it bent in the undergrowth;"**


End file.
